


Haunts and Hunts

by forestofbabel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Laura Hale, Cursed Stiles Stilinski, Curses, Hunter Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Spark Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-21 17:29:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22400518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forestofbabel/pseuds/forestofbabel
Summary: “You think my mom was like that?” Stiles asked as he pulled out a bandaid. “Ignoring any sense of code? Killing families, kids… humans? Just because they were in the way?”“Don’t think like that,” she said. It wasn’t a yes or a no. They had no way to find out. Stiles was the last of his line. He could be born of mass murderers and he would never know.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 53
Kudos: 233





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt asking for hunter!Stiles where I of course took things way too far and the story grew to much longer than it was supposed to.

The arrow whizzed past his ear before he could finish yelling, “ALLY, DON’T!” Stiles cursed as he threw up the mountain ash he had in his pocket before the werewolf could gain on them. 

Allison was already notching another arrow, heedless of his warning. As she took aim, Stiles stepped in front of her. “I’m trying to get him off her!” The first arrow had only been meant to distract the werewolf from its prey so that Stiles could try and save the girl as Allison continued shooting. Even laced with aconite, one arrow wouldn’t stop a wolf in its tracks. 

“Take two seconds and _look_.” The werewolf, blue eyes and bared teeth, hadn’t advanced on them. But not just because of Stiles’s barrier. He wasn’t attacking the blonde girl on the ground, he was putting pressure on a wound and his arm was riddled with black veins that had nothing to do with the poison that started to leak into his bloodstream. 

They were lucky she had only hit his arm. 

Allison’s breath hitched as she realized her mistake. “He has blue eyes,” she defended hotly. They had run into the scene looking for a rogue and caught a werewolf hunched over a bleeding body with clear signs she’d been mauled. Allison acted immediately when his eyes flashed. 

“Yours would be too if you were one,” he reminded her, trying not to snap too harshly. This was a talk for another time. Not when someone was dying and they’d only made the situation worse. “Give me the aconite.” He reached his hand out and Allison tossed it over without any resistance.

The blue-eyed werewolf was growling at them, jaw tight as he tried to concentrate on too many things. Pulling pain from the girl, holding her wound together, fighting back the pain of the arrow, their conversation. He looked confused and rightfully cautious underneath all the ridged brow and extra hair and snarling lips.

“Try not to bite my hand off,” Stiles said, pouring some of the brown powder into his palm. “I’m just going to undo what she did. Which, sorry. Ally, keep a lookout.” He didn’t want her freezing in her own panicked guilt. Allison was trying so hard to change not only her ways but that of the entire Argent family. Shooting a bystander, no matter how he first appeared, would have her reeling if she didn’t focus on her new motto of protection. 

Stiles stepped over the mountain ash at the same time he lit the aconite in his hand. The surprise of the small fire with no clear sign of what caused it was enough to keep the werewolf from attacking. He has slowed from the poison already and was more confused than before. He didn’t think to lunge at Stiles until Stiles had already wrapped his free hand around the arrow shaft and in one swift motion yanked it out and slammed the charred aconite into the puncture wound. 

The werewolf cried out. Stiles could only imagine how painful it was. It must have been more than he could handle at that moment because he teetered backward, exposing the girl. Her eyes flashed gold and Stiles cursed some more. She had a deep gash along her collar as if someone had gone for her neck and missed. And she wasn’t healing. Was their rogue an alpha? Was this an internal pack issue? Was it something other than a wolf that attacked her? Stiles shook his head. He didn’t have time to spiral out. Research mode was turned off.

The blue-eyed wolf had passed out. Small miracles. Maybe it was a good thing Allison shot him. Stiles doubted he would have convinced the guy to back off and let him help this fast. Without the other werewolf holding her down, she convulsed on the forest floor. In a matter of moments, Stiles pinned her best he could with his human strength and prayed what he was going to do would work. “Hope this doesn’t leave a scar,” he said, hand already heating with the same spark of magic that burnt the aconite. 

It was in that position, Allison with her bow at the ready, Stiles holding down werewolf while another was unconscious by his side, and the scent of burnt flesh stinging his nose, that the local alpha showed up flanked by two of her betas. 

“This looks much worse than it is,” Stiles said.

There was a brief moment where everything stilled, air stifling. The smallest movement would sound like a gong. Then it shattered into a flurry as Stiles scrambled to the ring of mountain ash. Dirt kicked up into the air and the betas rushed to their fallen pack mates, disregarding Stiles and Allison completely. The alpha, however, stood like a statue, red eyes glowing like brightest coals as she stared at the hunters. 

Stiles’ heart pounded in his chest. The betas could have grabbed him if they wanted to during his mad dash to safety. Relative safety. The barrier would hold, but how long would the alpha stay there? How long would Allison and Stiles be able to stick to such a small space with no provisions beyond poisons and arrows? He didn’t want to find out. 

“I was trying to cauterize the wound,” Stiles sputtered, unable to keep his nervous energy inside. “She wasn’t healing.”

“They’re stable,” one of the betas said. 

The alpha didn’t take her eyes off Stiles and Allison as said, “Take Erica home. Text me if she hasn’t started healing by then.”

One of them, the larger one with dark skin and broad shoulders, lifted Erica like a porcelain doll at risk of falling apart. It was kind of heartbreaking to watch. Then he was off, speeding towards the west. Stiles tried to mentally map out where their home might be, but his attention was quickly taken back by the groaning of the blue-eyed wolf. 

“She didn’t mean to shoot him,” Stiles he said. “Well, she did, Allison’s too good with a bow to accidentally hit someone - ow!” Allison had punched his arm. “BUT she didn’t mean to shoot _him_ , we mistook him for someone else.”

“She mistook him for someone else,” the alpha corrected. “I heard you two. She shot him, you saved him.”

“We’re just looking for the rogue,” Allison said. 

The alpha nodded. “We caught scent of him. Wanted to catch him before he could do any damage.”

“Any _more_ damage,” Allison corrected. “We’ve been tracking him from Oregon. He’s killed three people.”

“I still have two betas out searching but he’s probably found a hiding spot for the night after he attacked Erica. He knows we’re after him.”

The staredown between Allison and the alpha was making Stiles antsy so he turned back to the other werewolves. The one Allison shot was being helped to his feet by the tall curly-haired one. The shine of his blue eyes was somehow more intimidating than the red of his alpha’s. Stiles’ heart skipped a beat or two or three and then stuttered into overdrive. He distantly heard Allison asking if they wanted to go after the rouge on their own or let hunters assist. After what just happened, it was a fair offer. Before Allison could even finish, the wolf she shot, the one Stiles couldn’t take his eyes away from as his lips curled and his teeth sharpened, growled. “Get _out_.”

“Derek,” the alpha warned. 

Derek. Stiles recognized something behind Derek’s eyes. The kind of haunting that came from being cursed. 

“She’s an _Argent_ ,” Derek spat. “She’s more danger than the rogue.” He stumbled forward with his threat, almost falling out of his pack mate’s grip. It only emphasized Derek's concerns. Allison had shot him after all. 

Laura stared at the necklace Allison wore then lifted her eyes to meet Allison’s. “We’ll take care of the rogue. Allison Argent? I’ve heard about you, but,” she shook her head. “You’ve got a long way to go to gain our trust.” 

* * *

Just after Allison’s 16th birthday, she crafted a bullet with the crest of her family out of silver. The bullet was a right of passage for an Argent. A proof they’d learned the ways of the hunter, from the ways to kill to the reasons they do. _We hunt those who need to be hunted_. 

His family, his mother’s lineage that fated Stiles to be raised to hunt, didn’t have a motto or a crest. They didn’t have something to show themselves as kin; hunters who keep the world safe from threats of supernaturals. His family had a spark, which set them apart from other hunters. But they also had a curse. That was his right of passage.

When Allison was twenty-two, she melted down her bullet and crafted it into an arrowhead. She had become the matriarch of the Argents. It was her show of change in her family. They weren’t hunters who tracked down any inhuman creature and took their lives as thoughtlessly as a bullet could. Yes, they needed to know how to hunt, but the skill was for a different reason. _We protect those who cannot protect themselves._

When Allison showed the arrowhead to Stiles, he sliced his finger open. Not much, but enough for a large drop of blood to swell and trail down to his palm. He thought it was poetic that he would bleed by that arrow, thinking of the Argent’s former motto and the fact that Stiles was hunted. Hunted by time and a past older than himself.

“You think my mom was like that?” Stiles asked as he pulled out a bandaid. “Ignoring any sense of code? Killing families, kids… humans? Just because they were in the way?”

“Don’t think like that,” she said. It wasn’t a yes or a no. They had no way to find out. Stiles was the last of his line. He could be born of mass murderers and he would never know. 

“I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it? We’re cursed. Probably because we pissed off the wrong thing. It’s strong magic to curse a whole bloodline. At some point, we had to have done something horrible to make someone go to those lengths.”

Allison gripped his shoulder. “You can’t think like that. You’re not them. We’re not them.” 

* * *

“Did we do the right thing?” Allison asked, ultra-focused on the freeway in front of her. 

“They asked us to leave, Ally,” Stiles reminded her. “They can handle a rogue. You gave them your information in case other hunters try to come into the area and go after them. We have other things to go after.”

There were rumors of a kitsune who was losing control out east and a lone wendigo prowling in the woods somewhere in between. They considered camping out south of Beacon Hills for a few days in case the rogue slipped by the Hale pack but decided it might seem rude to them - assuming they would fail. 

Allison toyed with the arrowhead between her fingers, careful as to not cut herself. “Kate went through there,” she said tonelessly. They knew there was a chance there were more packs Kate had murdered than they already knew of, but they had no way of finding out. It was only chance that brought them to Beacon Hills. “I should be able to do more than make promises of being better to the families she destroyed.” 

“Maybe,” Stiles shrugged. “But we don’t know what that is. All we can do is _do better_. And if they ask us to leave,” Stiles thought about Derek’s haunted eyes and hated himself for the words coming out of his mouth, “we leave. If they can trust us to do that, they might actually contact us when something _is_ wrong.” 

“But-”

“I’m twenty-six, Ally. Almost twenty-seven. You’re not the only one who has to make up for their family history and I have less than four more years to do it. Let’s move on when they ask us to.”

* * *

Killing a wendingo wasn’t something Stiles reveled in, but it had to be done in that moment. The kitsune in New York was almost too out of control to reason with - she’d grown more powerful than her mother and was losing sense of self with each passing second, but they managed to bring her to the skinwalkers who nested in the Catskills. 

After that, Stiles traveled by himself for a while. Allison had to go be a leader and what not. He loved her like a sister and supported her with everything he had, but he didn’t want to be around the whole hunter world more than he had to. He was half raised by the Argents and it fucked him up. 

“Where’s home?” a guy asked once, buying Stiles a drink. “Nowhere,” Stiles told him. 

Home wasn’t with the Argents or the house he lived in as he trained to kill. Home wasn’t the vague impressions of life with his mother. Throwing knives in the backyard to the scent of fresh-baked cookies. Learning the bare roots of magic as she withered away in and out of the hospital until the time she never came back. Home wasn’t the Jeep he should trade-in at a junkyard but didn’t because it _was_ the closest thing to home he had. 

He shut the guy up with a kiss and never talked about home again. 

Stiles wasn’t the type of guy who was lucky enough to have a home. He didn’t have enough time to make one at this point. His hands shook as he raised his fist to knock at the apartment door. But maybe it wasn’t too late to try.

The man who opened the door had silver hair and deep wrinkles in his forehead. He was starting to bald and spot with age, but his eyes were the same ones Stiles saw every time he looked in the mirror.

“Mieczyslaw?”

“I go by Stiles.”

His dad’s eyes welled up and pulled Stiles into a hug. “I haven’t seen you since… how are you? What have you been doing? _Stiles_?”

Stiles held him, unsure of the emotions fighting in his chest. “Wanted to keep something of you,” Stiles answered. His mom had taken him away when his dad disagreed with her training him to be a hunter. Stiles couldn’t have been more than five at the time, still struggling to say his own name. He hadn’t seen his dad since, afraid of showing what he had turned into. Afraid to make a connection that he wouldn’t get to keep. 

“Sorry it took me so long.”

“I looked for you,” John said. “I should have been able to find you. I was the god damned sheriff. And I couldn’t.”

“Homeschooled. Moved around a lot. Mom went by a different name.”

“And when she died?” Because he knew that much, even if he wasn’t around for it. 

“Chris Argent took me in. Mom wanted that life for me.”

It was a few hours and a couple of beers later that his dad brought it up. “You’re almost thirty.”

Stiles nodded. “I never planned to see you. I didn’t want,” he shrugged. “I didn’t want to do this to you.”

“To me?” The pained smile on his face was like throwing his heart into a trash compactor. God it hurt. “Stiles, seeing you, for however briefly, is the best thing that could have happened to me.”

“I should get going.” He had more to do. He was twenty-eight and he had more to do. Falling into a lull with his father he never really knew would only distract him. “I, uh, I’m glad I came by though.”

“Me too, kiddo.” 

A distant memory surfaced and Stiles smiled at the missing years they could have shared together. “Maybe I’ll come by again. If I’m in the area.” 

“I’d like that, son.” 

Stiles was shaky and emotional and perhaps not dealing with the realities of his family’s curse as he best possibly could but if he was going to be the last one to bear it, he was going to right as many wrongs as he could. He couldn’t do that from the comfort of something as common as a home. 

“Don’t you think,” Allison once asked, “that you’d be righting a wrong by repairing your relationship with your father? You’d be righting a wrong by not letting this curse ruin your life.”

“It’s already ruined my life,” Stiles told her. “And there are bigger injustices I can help out with.”

She called him a martyr and he didn’t argue her point, but her words echoed in his mind as he walked back to his Jeep from his dad’s apartment complex. It was almost enough to distract him from the chill that ran up his spine. He was too delayed to pull out his mountain ash and stop whatever was approaching from getting too close, but his reflexes were still fast. 

Stiles turned on his heel to face the threat as he was grabbed and shoved into the side of his Jeep. The eyes like blue lightning held just as much sway over him as the first time Stiles saw them. “I thought I told you to leave,” Derek growled, a touch of his claws pricking the skin of his neck. 

“That was two years ago,” Stiles said. “I’m not here for you but if you don’t _back off_ I don’t think you’ll survive a bullet to the gut.” His gun was pressed against Derek’s abdomen, his last-ditch attempt to protect himself when caught by surprise. 

Derek snarled, but didn’t move. “Tell me why you’re in town and maybe I’ll let you go.”

“I’m not. This is Beacon Valley, not Beacon Hills.”

That wasn’t a good enough answer, apparently. Stiles gave him props for sticking his ground at least. 

“Visiting my dad.”

“Another hunter?” Derek questioned.

“Former Sheriff. Stilinski? We’re estranged. Feel gratified knowing he didn’t want me raised this way.”

A few shallow breaths were shared between them, then the pinpricks of his claws were replaced with the blunt edge of his nails. Stiles felt as if he were being tested, judged, analyzed to the bone by those glowing eyes. A part of him wanted to lash out, to prove him right. Stiles was trying to do good, but he didn’t like being cornered. There was still a threat to the hand on his neck. Derek could crush his throat as soon as slit it open. 

Stiles clicked the safety on slid his gun back into its holster. “What are you going to do, Derek? Be the thing hunters were created to fight?”

Derek snarled as he dropped his hand and took a step back. “You don’t know me.”

“And you don’t know me,” Stiles challenged. “I’m just trying to fix some of the bullshit in the world.”

“By killing people?”

Stiles couldn’t say no. He had killed people. He tried to leave it as a last resort in self-defense, but sometimes he knew going in that death was the only way out. “Only when I have to.” 

Derek looked up to the building with a frown. “Sheriff Stilinski is your father?”

“Yeah.”

“He lives in my building.”

Stiles looked up the front of the apartment. “You live here?” He assumed Derek lived at the Hale house. Maybe he’d moved in the last few years. 

Derek ignored him, staring at the window that led to John’s apartment. “And you’re just passing through?”

Stiles looked over the cut of his jaw, the furrow of his brow, the color of his eyes now that they weren’t a lustrous light against the night sky. “Unless there’s something you need me for. Yeah, I’m just passing through.” 

Derek was barely two feet away. He was still hesitant, looking between Stiles and the building and a little bit of nowhere. “We have Allison’s information. She wants to be our savior like it isn’t fifteen years too late. If I can avoid it, we’re never inviting her back.”

Stiles nodded. He understood. “Okay.”

“Just okay?”

“I can’t and won’t try to control what you do, Derek. It’s your pack. Allison and I, we just want to help where we’re needed.” 

Derek gave him that look again, judging his soul against a feather. His arms crossed, uncomfortable posturing that surprised Stiles. Derek’s shoulders rose in strained tension and his nose flared in a way that Stiles wasn’t sure had to do with scenting or not. Then he said: “We don’t have your contact info.” He looked away and back at the building while Stiles leaned against the Jeep in shock. “I should know if you’re coming back to see him. We deserve to be alerted to hunter presence no matter the reason.”

Stiles wanted to smirk but held it back. He didn’t think Derek would take the gesture lightly. “Sound logic.” Stiles reached for his phone and Derek only flinched a little bit before it was proved not to be his gun. He tossed it over and waited for Derek to hand it back. “If you ever need me in the next year, feel free to reach out.” 

“Only the next year? Allison’s offer was open-ended.”

Stiles shrugged. “She has the luxury of time.”


	2. Chapter 2

Derek didn’t message him. 

It was his birthday a few months later and he came back to Beacon County to visit his dad. One last birthday to celebrate with a man who missed so many. It was the least Stiles could do. Stiles texted Derek a mile outside the border and the morning sun spilled over the mountains. He wasn’t expecting to actually see him or any of the pack. He pulled up to the apartment building and cut the engine and… and nothing. Stiles wasn’t sure how much time passed, staring at the dashboard. It was somehow harder to get up the courage to see his dad this time than before. There were expectations this time. 

A knock on his window rattled Stiles out of his stupor. Derek stood on the other side, eyebrow raised in confusion. Stiles rolled the window down, the Jeep so old it was a manual crank. “Hey. What’s up?”

“You’ve been sitting out here for at least twenty minutes. Doing nothing. And your heart sounds like it’s about to explode. So.”

Stiles rubbed the back of his neck and cleared his throat. “I told you we were estranged. It’s uh, hard. To see him.” 

Derek stared at him so long it could have been another twenty minutes. “You’re being ridiculous, you know that right?” 

“Yeah.” 

Derek rolled his eyes and reached in through the window to unlock the door. “Come on.” He popped the door open and gestured for Stiles to get out. 

“You going to escort me to my father’s home?” 

“Just get out of the car, Stiles.”

Stiles did as he was told with minimal grumbling. “You’re not going to kidnap me, are you?”

“You have mountain ash and wolfsbane on you. I think you’re safe.”

“Reassuring,” Stiles snorted, but followed Derek anyway. “Where are you taking me?” Derek wasn’t leading him into the building but to another car further down the parking lot. 

“You need a distraction to clear out the nervous energy.”

“And what exactly are you proposing here, big guy?” Because, if he was being honest - and Stiles always was to himself - he wouldn’t waste a second jumping into bed with Derek. It had been a while and Derek was gorgeous and he thought they might have good hate sex. Not that Stiles hates Derek, he didn’t know him well enough, but Derek didn’t exactly like Stiles. Then again if Derek lived in the apartment then why were they getting in his car? 

“You’re a hunter, right?” 

“Yeah…”

“We’ve got something for you to hunt.”

Derek filled Stiles in on the way to the Hale house. There had been something going on around town that hadn’t pinged up on the Argent radar. Probably because it hadn’t killed anyone. It was already dead.

“Ghosts? I didn’t think ghosts were real. If I have to fight things I’ve already killed I might as well just stop trying,” Stiles huffed.

“I don’t think it’s ghosts.”

“You’re seeing the dead.”

“I think it’s a shapeshifter,” Derek said. “It was real, physical.”

“That’s a ghoul. According to mythology. Ghosts that take on physical form. Poltergeist are ghosts that can move things. Again, don’t know if any of that is real. Shapeshifters definitely are real though so you might be onto something there.” Stiles drummed his fingers against the dashboard, ignoring the look Derek gave him - for his fast-paced speech or annoying tapping Stiles couldn’t be sure. “How long has it been bothering you guys?”

Seeing the faces of dead loved ones or past enemies or whatever other nonsense they were dealing with had to have been tough. There were so many ghosts in Beacon Hills, so many things to haunt those still alive.

“End of January.”

“End of- end of _January!_ ” Stiles nearly choked on his own spit. He whipped his head to Derek so fast he thought he might have broken something. “I was here in _February._ It’s been two months! Not only was I here but you had my info and you didn’t! You didn’t even say anything!”

Derek’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, the leather creaking threateningly. “I didn’t trust you.”

“Do you trust me now?”

“No.”

Stiles muttered something rude under his breath, not caring that Derek could easily hear it. He took a deep breath and let it go, refocusing his attention on what Derek told him so far. “Who have you been seeing? Like, specifically. It can tell us a lot. Like. You’re positive they’re all dead people?”

The leather creaked under his hands again but then he loosened his grip. “We’ve all seen different people.”

“Okay, that right there is already a lead. Tell me more.”

Derek cleared his throat. It reminded Stiles of the last time they met. Derek crossed his arms and shrunk into himself behind a defensive stance. For all his strength the man kept showing signs of weakness to Stiles. Nerves or uncertainty or fear. 

“Malia’s been seeing her birth mother. That’s a long and complicated story between them, but she’s dead. We made sure of it.”

“Killed her, got it.”

“Boyd’s been seeing his younger sister. She… she disappeared from the ice rink as a kid. We can’t be certain she’s dead but,” Derek shrugged. 

“Chances aren’t good after this long,” Stiles agreed. 

“Isaac’s been seeing his abusive fucking father.”

“Should I assume you killed him, too?” There was no judgment in his voice. If Derek or the pack got rid of an abuser it was no different really than Stiles hunting creatures who were out of control. Other than the fact that they could report that to the police, but sometimes with abuse you need the victim to be able to testify to it first before taking action against the abuser. 

“No. That was someone name Dahler. Human on human crime.” 

Stiles nodded. “Who else?”

“Peter… Peter’s my uncle. He’s been seeing my mom.”

“Oh.” And yeah, Talia Hale was definitely dead. 

“And I’ve been seeing Kate Argent.”

Stiles's stomach bottomed out. “You’ve been seeing Kate around town but didn’t contact Allison?”

“It’s not Kate,” Derek said, something other than anger leaking into his voice although Stiles couldn’t quite place it. 

“You’re right,” Stiles nodded. “Kate’s dead. And ghosts aren’t real.” 

Derek seemed to be surprised that Stiles was agreeing with him so readily. Stiles was probably more surprised that Derek had invited him to help out at all, but Stiles would take anything to forget what day it was - although he’d probably do this anyway. 

“No one else in your pack has seen a ghost?”

“No. Not yet at least.”

Stiles hummed and tapped his fingers and mentally went over the index of creatures he knew about. 

“Well if you look at shifters who can take on multiple forms, we have less confirmed than speculation in the mythos. Not sure if they’re real, but if yes I doubt it’s an incubus or succubus because those would be people you want to have sex with-“ Derek made a choked off sound that Stiles ignored. Most of those pairings were pretty gross. “Also they’d be trying to seduce you. You never said what the ghosts did. Are they approaching? Attacking? Acting like the people you remember?”

“No,” Derek said after a long pause. “We just… see them. She just stares at me. And when I. I tried going after her but Issac was nearby and when he joined me she just… we lost track of her. No scent, no more footprints. Isaac never saw her.”

Stiles hummed, trying to process all the information. Ghosts.

Stiles had a lot of ghosts in his past. People he was forced to kill, people he lost and it killed a little bit of himself. His mother used to say that being haunted by history only spurred us forward. Her mind started to go at the end, in and out of reality. She was trapped by those hauntings, unable to move forward anymore. He wondered what ghosts followed her around, what things she regretted. Stiles was eight when she died, only a few years of training under his belt away from his father. He never got the chance to ask her. He was too young to understand that it wasn’t all just a game.

They pulled up to the Hale House and Stiles tried to bring his thoughts back to the ghost that was following the pack. The shapeshifter that haunted them. Derek led him through the front door and Stiles stalled. He had read up all about the fire after they learned that Kate had gone after this pack. This was the original framework, enough salvageable to rebuild without having to completely teardown. Initial reports said eight people died, but it was only seven. Seven. Yet only Talia had been seen by any of the pack. Surely, if it was ghosts, it would be the people who died here coming to haunt the place. 

Stiles needed to ask an uncomfortable question. 

He braced himself to talk to Derek when he caught Erica staring at him from the second-floor banister. She looked healthy, now that she wasn’t bleeding out and unconscious. Erica gave Derek a look that Derek responded to by crossing his arms. She huffed and started down the stairs. 

“You smell familiar.”

“Erica.”

“What? He does. But I don’t know him.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “This is Stiles. The hunter.”

Fast feet came bounding from somewhere further in the house. A girl with dark brown hair and the one Stiles pretty sure was Isaac hurled themselves into the railing. “I’m sorry,” the girl said, “did I just hear that Derek brought a _hunter_ home?”

“Cora,” Derek grumbled. 

Isaac looked at Stiles with wide eyes. “Oh, yeah, the one who shot him!”

“I didn’t shoot him,” Stiles corrected. “My… partner did.”

“Oh, Stiles!” Erica said, slapping her fist into her hand. “The one who gave me the burn for a week.” 

Stiles winced. “Did it scar?”

Erica shook her head. “No, I just,” she shrugged. “I had epilepsy when I was human and it, uh, sometimes rears its head now as a stall in my healing ability.” 

“Fascinating,” Stiles said, truly meaning it. His brain was caught up in the medical, biological, scientific side of magic - wanting to understand what could and couldn’t be fixed by something like lycanthropy. Where was the line drawn between human and supernatural, between impossible and -

“He’s going to be helping us with the ghost problem.”

“Did you ask Laura?” Cora asked. 

Stiles turned to see Derek’s response. It was a good question. Stiles didn’t want to intrude if the pack’s alpha didn’t approve. Derek, however, rolled his eyes and pushed at Stiles’ shoulder to guide him away from the gathering werewolves. Stiles had to admit, for whatever it was worth, the pressure of Derek’s hand was a little thrilling. 

Derek led him to a small library and shut the door. The sight of the books was perhaps more thrilling than imagining all the ways Derek could and would never touch him. 

“Soundproof?” Stiles asked, nodding to the door. 

Derek nodded and shrugged. “Someone could still hear if they press their ear to the door, but otherwise we’re pretty muffled. But if I were going to hurt you I wouldn’t need to hide in the library to do it.”

“Wasn’t where my mind was at, but thanks I guess,” Stiles laughed. He skimmed the titles nearest to him. If he had the time, Stiles would devour these books. But there was a mystery to solve, and Stiles didn’t have time to spare. “But it’s probably a good thing no one’s listening in because I have to ask you something.”

Derek tensed, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “What.” His voice was so flat with trying to hide his reaction that Stiles couldn’t help but smile wryly. Stiles didn’t know what Derek was thinking he’d ask, but Stiles was sure it wasn’t anything good. 

“I’m thinking of all the info you gave me, and the patterns that are there but not complete. I need to know a bit more.”

“That’s not a question.”

Stiles sighed. He didn’t know how to approach this. “There’s one pattern that seems like the most obvious, but you break the mold. You’re the only one who didn’t see a relative.” 

Derek’s expression didn’t change - tense, nostrils a bit flared, jaw clenched, arms crossed. He was holding himself so still in fear of letting anything go. Stiles still hadn’t asked a question, and Derek wouldn’t fill any gaps without one. 

“Now, based off the other people you’ve mentioned, the common thread could be guilt. People who you all feel responsible for their deaths somehow, but I can’t imagine why you’d feel guilty that Kate was dead. And maybe Isaac, too. But it could be trauma related, where guilt is a part of it but not the exact reason. You weren’t responsible for Kate’s death, and if you were feeling guilty about a death, it would stand to reason you’d more likely see a pack member, wouldn’t it? So, maybe it’s a two-way thing. Isaac’s father abused him, and that creates complexes that are hard to let go of, even after death. Kate killed your family, but that connection shouldn’t be stronger than your mom’s, like for Peter.” Stiles took a deep breath. It was hard, sometimes, to keep track of the thread of all his thoughts. “I need to know _why Kate_. Why would you be connected to Kate this strongly?”

Derek’s grip on his own arms looked painful. Stiles thought he saw the tips of claws digging into the fabric of his shirt, dangerously close to breaking the skin beneath. 

Then Derek told him. Clipped words and short sentences. Just enough to get the story across without any real detail. And Stiles was horrified. 

“Every time I think I’ve seen the worst of Kate, and she still manages to outdo herself,” Stiles said with barely contained anger. Kate didn’t need to seduce a child. Fifteen-year-old Derek wasn’t the only way to the secrets Kate wanted to commit her murder. She’d seen Derek, and she chose that. 

Stiles remembered when he and Allison were kids and how she talked about her aunt who was more like a sister. How amazing Kate was to Allison’s eyes. Strong, beautiful, smart, independent. Stiles remembered the warmth in Kate’s eyes when she looked at Allison, and how it seemed more like the fire of a forge used to craft a weapon than any kind of love. Stiles remembered being fifteen himself and having Kate come over. The way she looked at him never held any warmth, no matter the smile on her face. He wondered how Kate looked at Derek, how she could hide so easily the lack of compassion in her decaying heart. 

Stiles cleared his throat and turned to the books. There were probably a good few references here to find answers and leave the pack with. “You said the ghost disappeared when Isaac showed up?” 

“Yeah.” His voice was scratchy after telling his story. Stiles wondered how many tears he forced back, but didn’t dare look back now. 

“If we’re going off the assumption it’s a singular shifter,” Stiles said, pulling down a couple of books, “then it’s not working on mirages. It couldn’t show you and Isaac different things at the same time. But it also couldn’t show Isaac what it was showing you.” He flipped through another book and put it back on the shelf. “So the connection between you and its appearance is fragile. It can only show up when you’re alone. It’s not trying to act like them because it probably doesn’t know who it is they’re imitating.”

“You’re making a lot of assumptions,” Derek pointed out. 

Stiles shrugged and added another one to his pile. “You have to take leads of conjecture sometimes, otherwise you’ll get stuck too easily. Detective work is as much a game of elimination as anything else, but you can’t eliminate a possibility without seeing where it takes you first.” Stiles peaked a glance back to Derek. He was watching Stiles with a heavy frown and Stiles turned back to the books. The books were safe. “It wasn’t actively trying to lure you, by like, calling to you, but it still moved away as you got closer? Keeping the same distance?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” 

Stiles nodded and pulled down another book. He recognized some of the titles, and the ones he didn’t were fairly straight forward. It didn’t take him long to figure out if it had useful information to look at closer or not. “So, my guess is, as with most things that take the form of someone real, it was trying to get you alone. And yes, you were already alone when you saw it, but probably not far from others. I mean, Isaac showed up pretty fast, right?” He didn’t wait for confirmation. “So, it most likely wants to get you far enough away from others that it can do whatever it’s planning without interruption. Maybe it takes a while. Maybe revealing it’s true form ruins its hunting ground. I don’t know.”

Stiles set another book to his pile and skimmed the remaining section. The library seemed pretty well organized so, he should have grabbed all the material he needed for now. “We have a few possibilities.” 

“A few?” Derek raised a skeptic eyebrow at the tall stack of books Stiles had made. 

“Lots of cross-references,” Stiles promised. “It could be something fey related, _if_ those are real. Like, a wil-o-wisp type creature. It could also technically, _technically_ be a skinwalker, but I highly doubt that. They wouldn’t need to leave when Isaac left unless they were trying to keep up some type of personal illusion for you all, not one they _had_ to keep up.” Stiles sorted the books into three piles. One on the different types of fey that could be responsible - which were really all one type but different countries giving them new identities. One on the skinwalkers. And the last one was just one book. “But I personally think it’s this.” He handed it over to Derek, open on the page that began to talk about the creature in question. 

“A sluagh?” Derek said, reading the word carefully to fit the sounds together. “Never heard of that.”

“Obscure mythology is my specialty,” Stiles said. “Determining things like this can be hard because, just because it’s written down and old doesn’t mean it’s true. And what’s new tends to be new-age hippie books cobbled together by generations of stories where authors all put their own spin on tales and not anything real. Things might not match exactly, but it’s the most likely answer.” 

Derek’s lips parted just a hair's breadth as he read, silently speaking the words to himself. His brow was pinched but he seemed more relaxed than before. Derek was sort of beautiful, Stiles thought. 

A knock sounded at the door and it opened before either could react. 

The man who stepped through had burn scars disfiguring part of his face, trailing down his neck and under his collar. From what Stiles knew, he assumed this must be Peter. It took a lot of damage to scar a werewolf, and he was the only one who made it out of the house fire alive. 

Peter’s eyes locked onto Stiles, a snarl to his lips that was all too human and could be a permanent curl from the burns. “I thought I smelled something familiar.” 


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles spent hours staring at his phone, thumbnail between his teeth as he chewed the skin around it raw. Answering Derek's message and going back to Beacon Hills was unusually tempting. 

He could see his dad again, which Stiles wanted to do. His surprise birthday visit hadn't been long after wasting most of his day at the Hale house. Still, his dad was thankful for the time, and Stiles wanted to give that to him. And he wanted it for himself if he was being honest. But it hurt, also. It hurt knowing the end was coming. 

But going back to Beacon Hills also meant seeing Derek again. Obviously. It was Derek texting. They needed more help with the sluagh. And Stiles had told Derek before to reach out if he needed help. Other than pulling him aside when Stiles was already in town last month, this was the first time Derek or the rest of the pack had bothered to  _ ask _ for any assistance. It could be serious, and Stiles should go. And Stiles wanted to see Derek, but he also very much didn't. 

When his normal channels came up empty of new targets, Stiles couldn't seem to help himself but climb into his car and drive out West. 

* * *

Peter had been intimidating. Not in the sense that Stiles couldn't take him if it came down to it. Rather, Peter knew about him. Knew his mother. When Peter burst in, announcing that he smelled something familiar, the next words out of his mouth were: "You're Claudia's son, aren't you." 

It made sense the two of them had crossed paths at some point - before the fire, before Stiles' mother took him away to be a hunter. His father had worked for the local law enforcement, so they must have lived here when he was little. Stiles didn't remember much of those days. Fragments, mostly. The smell of their backyard after a summer storm, the way the grass-stained the knees of his jeans, his parents fighting when his dad woke up for the night shift and found weapons in Stiles' hand. 

Peter was right. Stiles was Claudia's son. He had been molded by his mother and her choices. Stiles wondered who he would have been had he been raised by his dad. 

"You must be getting along in years," Peter had said, looking Stiles up and down. Stiles was too distracted by the man, his words, his knowledge, the scars on his face, the way he stalked closer despite Derek's warning growl. Peter had a good sleight of hand and was holding Stiles' wallet before he could even think to protect himself.

Derek had told Peter to give it back, angry and annoyed at his uncle, but Peter was too fast. He'd already learned what he wanted to. "It's your birthday," Peter said, looking at the date on Stiles' driver's license. 

That stalled Derek from fighting Peter. Stiles had to admit that that was the reason he was in town to begin with. 

"You're twenty-nine," Peter said, tossing the wallet back.

"Yeah."

"A shame."

Derek told Peter to stop being creepy. Cora was in the hall as Derek rushed Stiles out, and he heard her say, "Stiles is too young for you, not too old." It was kind of amusing.

Stiles had tried to insist he could stay longer, but Derek wasn't hearing it. Whether it was because Derek thought Stiles should spend the day with his father or because he didn't want Stiles anywhere near Peter was anyone's guess. 

The drive back to the apartment had been silent. Stiles bit his tongue on all the things he wanted to spout. No matter how stupid or relevant they may be, after what Derek told him about Kate… Well, the air was charged with something that Stiles would respect. It wasn't until Derek shifted the gear into park that he spoke up. 

"Thank you," Derek gritted out. "For your help."

Stiles's smile was pained for a lot of reasons, but mostly because he knew flirting right now would only piss Derek off. And Stiles didn't want to hurt the guy. "I hope it does. Help, that is." Derek turned his haunted eyes to Stiles, and Stiles swallowed back the tension building in his chest. 

"Why only a year?" Derek asked. Apparently, his silence had been filled with a lot of putting puzzle pieces together. Peter's display and the last time Derek had seen Stiles had connected in Derek's mind. 

Stiles shrugged, hand on the latch. "I won't be able to get into anyone's hair after that. So use me while you can."

"But why."

Stiles couldn't keep the eye contact. He stared up at his dad's window, aching at how he failed the man. "Because I want to do some good."

"That's not what I'm asking, and you know it." Derek huffed. "Why'd Peter care so much about how old you are?"

Stiles didn't owe him this answer. But there was no point in secrets for a dying man. "Because I'll be dead." Stiles popped the door open and stepped out. "Family curse." He didn't look back. Stiles didn't know what his face was doing, but he sure as hell didn't want Derek to see it. 

* * *

It was a cold day in November when Claudia Stilinski died. Fallen leaves covered in frost, grass crunchy beneath Stiles's boots as he walked to her grave to watch her be buried. Victoria stood behind him, hands on his shoulders. He'd been going by Michael Argent for a few months already, on records at least. Ally would only call him Stiles and yell at her parents when they called him anything else. They eventually gave in. But the day they buried his mother, Victoria and Chris called him Michael. 

Stiles thought maybe he also died that day. He didn't know his dad or even remember him that well. His mom was gone. His name was gone. He wasn't even sure he knew how to pronounce his real first name correctly. Then, when they had gone home, Chris handed him a letter from his mom. That was how Stiles learned about the curse. 

His mother had died on her 30th birthday. Stiles would die on his. 

She took everything else to the grave with her. 

* * *

"You sure took your time," Derek said, a bit of edge to his voice. 

Stiles jumped out of his Jeep and zipped his hoodie. It was barely May, and the weather was still pretty gloomy. "I was in Kentucky, dude. It's a long drive." The Jeep had broken down twice on the way and currently smelled like it was overheating again. "What can I do for you?"

Derek looked him up and down. It made his gut clench. The last few times Stiles was in town, he'd tried to look nice. Nothing fancy, but put together. He had been there to see his dad. This time, though, he'd come straight off of several days in a car, crashing at stranger's places using couchsurfer and using his backseat as a trash bin for fast food wrappers. 

He probably smelled terrible. Even to a human nose. 

"We found its… nest."

"Nest?"

"We can't reach it. Built out of rowan branches." 

"Ah. Interesting  _ it  _ can touch them." Stiles wondered what about a sluagh made it immune to mountain ash. Then he realized he'd need to find different protection to bring with him. Stiles muttered through other items, mentally sorting them into things to try and things not to bother with. 

" _ STILES." _

Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin. He wondered how long Derek had been calling his name. "Sorry. Got… distracted." He had taken his Adderall that morning, but it didn't feel like it. A spike of fear shot through him that he fought down with willful ignorance. If this was the start of the end, he still had time before his mind ultimately failed him. It wasn't worth thinking about. 

"I can see that."

"Debrief me?" Stiles asked, heading to the back of the Jeep. He listened as Derek told him what details he could. The book Stiles had found gave them a way to track it. When spotted by more than one of them, they could finally see it for what it really was. That caused the sluagh to screech and become violent. Derek and Issac had no problem defending themselves, but it was faster. Once it realized it would lose the fight, it fled, leading them to the nest. They were at a standstill. 

While cataloging the new information, Stiles pushed around several tackle boxes he kept in his trunk. Different types of wolfsbane, ammo, mountain ash, mistletoe, sonic devices, high volt tasers, tranquilizer darts, yadda yadda hunter shit. The problem was, if this creature was immune to mountain ash, then chances were it was immune to the rest of the more nature-based approaches available to him. Sure, it would have some natural weakness, but if Stiles didn't know what it was, there was no point in hoping to just get lucky. The rest of his stuff…

"What do you want me to do with it?" 

"What?"

Derek might have been in the middle of talking. Stiles wasn't sure. He chewed his bottom lip and looked between the stuff he had. "Bring it over to Eichen house? Kill it? Relocate it and hope it doesn't lure people there to their, I'm assuming, deaths? Subdue it and bring it back here so you guys can decide later?  _ Has  _ it killed anybody?" Stiles frowned. Sluaghs were hard to read. There wasn't much corroborated information on them. They might not learn the answer until they get there and Stiles sees this nest for himself. 

Derek was silent for a moment, arms crossed. His eyes were hard and mouth thin. It was possible Stiles said something, uh, inappropriate. 

"Are you okay?"

The question had Stiles blinking. "What?" 

"You're -" Derek looked Stiles up and down again. "When's the last time you slept?" 

Stiles laughed, breathless and quiet. "I'm fine. Honestly."

"If you're not in top shape, you shouldn't be going out to fight this thing," a cool, steady female voice said. 

Stiles spun to face the front porch. Half of the pack was out there, just watching. Laura had one eyebrow raised so high it was ready to spring off her face and whip Stiles for being stupid. 

Stiles actually laughed at that, shaking out of him in gleeful surprise. "Oh, man," he wheezed, calming down. "Sorry to disappoint, but I'm never in top shape." Smile still on his face, Stiles holstered a handgun and snatched a vial of ketamine. If he was going into the nest, there wouldn't be space for a tranquilizer gun. Those things were built like rifles. Better to just fill a syringe and make sure not to stab himself. "So what'll it be, Alpha Hale?" 

She took a moment to stare him down. "If I told you to kill it?"

Stiles frowned. He realized he hadn't expected that from them and was kind of disappointed. "I'd ask on what grounds, because unless it's proven dangerous, then I'd rather bring it to the Eichen House. From what I understand, despite taking on human appearances, they're more Pluto than Goofy if you get what I mean, so you can't really talk with them." 

"Did you just compare werewolves with Goofy?" Erica asked. 

Stiles shifted between his feet. "Didn't want to say more animal than human, because obviously," he waved his hand between them, "that doesn't quite make sense? But you know, there's kitsunes and skinwalkers and wendigos on one end, and manticores, basilisks, and kelpies on the other." 

Before Stiles could shove his foot any further in his mouth, Laura said, "So that's a no, to the killing."

"I try to avoid killing unless a last measure in self-defense." 

Laura smiled. "Good."

"Good?" Stiles realized a second too late that he was being tested. 

"We don't have any evidence it's done anything except annoy us," she said. "But we can't let it stay here. I can have my emissary talk to the Eichen House and talk about getting it under their care."

Stiles had sort of forgotten about emissaries. In brainwashing members to believe supernatural creatures were mindless killing machines, a pack having a human liaison came across as too civil to keep in the course curriculum. Stiles hadn't even really understood that there were werewolves other than rogue omegas until everything Kate did came to the surface. Stiles made sure to educate himself from that point, rather than relying on what the Argent clan had taught him. Despite how knowledgeable he was on the supernatural, it was still easy to forget simple things like this. 

"Why can't they go into the nest?" Stiles questioned out loud before even knowing he had the thought. 

Laura smirked, a smug and proud look that lit up her eyes. "Because she's pregnant." 

"Oh," Stiles said, surprised. Then Laura's face made more sense. " _ Oh! _ Congratulations?" The little shrug of Laura's shoulder was enough confirmation, as her smug smirk slid into a more subdued but not less happy smile. "Congratulations! But yeah, that makes sense. I wouldn't let her anywhere near this thing." Stiles filled up a couple of syringes with ketamine, carefully capping them before putting them in his pocket. "So, who wants to play tour guide?"

* * *

The first time Stiles went on a hunt, he'd been thirteen. Ally was pissed. She was a year older than him, but they hadn't let her join. Stiles was pissed on her behalf. Despite claiming to be a matriarchal clan, everyone knew the real power was in Gerard's hand at the time. Allison's great aunt was technically in charge, but that didn't mean much when she was bedridden, having lost a leg and her hearing over a decade ago. Stiles knew the reasons Gerard had brought him along. Allison was being groomed to  _ lead _ not to fight, even though she was better than him. Stiles was a boy. And he wasn't even an Argent. He was, to some degree, dispensable. 

During the hunt, Stiles tried to hide how scared he was. He knew he'd die at 30, but only if he lived that long. He didn't want to die yet. It wasn't fair to give him an expiration date then throw him out early. 

He didn't die. Instead, he stared down a lamia. He saw the hunger and rage and pain and humanity in her eyes. Stiles thought of his mom in that moment, the way she looked at him the weeks before her death. The recognition without understanding. At one point, she thought he was trying to kill her. There was a knife in his hand now, and a monster in his face. 

When Gerard shot her through the head, the arrow's tip almost went so far as to hit Stiles. The lamia crumpled into Stiles's arms. Gerard looked at him, unimpressed. It was then that Stiles realized Gerard had used him as bait. 

Stiles made sure to do everything he could to fend for himself in the field. He made sure to become invaluable as a spark, the only thing to set him apart. 

He never told Allison. Not until he was twenty, and she was crying on his shoulder about all the families Kate had murdered, all the fights Gerard had started, all the lives they had taken simply because they could. Allison cried harder, anger replacing her devastated grief. Stiles joined her, tears sliding down his face until he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore. 

* * *

Erica, Cora, and Derek led Stiles through the woods. The two girls and Laura were the only ones who didn't see someone when looking at the creature alone. Laura wanted to minimize the chances of there being an emotional stall if the fight moved outside the nest and they had to chase the Sluagh down. She had stayed behind only because her wife was very, very pregnant. Even had Laura been willing to leave Marin's side, Stiles doubted Marin would let her. Of the rest of them, Derek had insisted ongoing. He had been the one to bring Stiles into the issue; he would follow through with whatever consequences came with that. 

The rest of the pack were alert to the situation, Isaac and Boyd staying in a nearer perimeter but hoping to not be needed. 

The wolves lead Stiles to what looked like a human-sized pendant nest made of branches of rowan the thickness of his arm, only it touched the ground and spread out like roots. It was creepy. If some rando saw this, they'd think it was an art piece. Somehow that made it worse. There was a rustle of something inside. Hissing, almost. Stiles pulled a hunting knife from his boots. If this thing was faster than a werewolf, he wouldn't have time to pull a trigger. 

He had ketamine syringes in a few different pockets to grab and stab with convenience depending on what happened, but also had one ready to go in his non-dominant hand. Stiles did his own research after leaving last time, and reread the passages in the book in the Hale library before heading out. He told the pack that since mountain ash doesn't work, mistletoe would. If any of them heard the lie, they stayed silent. 

Stiles wasn't exactly defenseless. He was well trained. He was strong. He had his spark. 

He just didn't have any sure-fire protection. Not the way he could toss mountain ash around a wolf. 

"We don't have to do this now," Derek said, as they stood, taking in the nest. 

Stiles shook his head. "No point in waiting." He breathed out any lingering apprehensions about the mission. With only one year left to live, there wasn't really any reason to have restraint on his recklessness. 

The wolves got as close as they could to the nest before the branches held their effect. Stiles kept marching forward. Inside was dark, cavernous, about the size of his bedroom. Still, some light trickled through. 

"Stiles?" Erica called when Stiles stayed in the entryway a beat too long. 

Stiles didn't look back. He couldn't. At the far end of the nest, the sluagh stood in a patch of sun from the south side. There was blood smeared around its mouth, wearing the face of Claudia Stilinski. 

Even if mountain ash did work against this creature, there was nothing to protect him from that. 

It's face lit up as if presented with a grand surprise. A feast. Prey. Something to tear apart. At the thing's feet, Stiles could make out the mangled shape of an arm. The bone was visible, most of the muscle tissue gone. 

The next few moments went by fast. Stiles stepped into the shadows. The creature screeched, hissed, laughed with his mother's voice. Stiles didn't think it knew how to talk, but it must copy people down to their vocal cords. It was on him in less than a blink. 

With the same power that let Stiles burn ash, Stiles let his body burn. Thing reeled in pain as Stiles swung his arm to pierce its neck with the needle. It blocked his attempt. The syringe flew out of his hand, clattering somewhere to his left. There was a hand on his throat. His mother's bloody mouth almost looked like it was stained with berries. The glee in her eyes almost looked like love. If he let himself believe, the pressure of her hand could almost feel gentle. Comforting. Welcome.

He was pinned against the wall, the bends of branches digging into his back. The thing that looked like his mother crowded him too close to go for his pockets. Stiles stabbed it in the neck with the syringe tucked up his sleeve. 

The sluagh didn't so much as flinch. 

Stiles heard his name being called. A cadence of voices yelling questions. 

The knife was still in his other hand. He was running out of air. They would be on their own to fight this thing. If they could ever catch it. Stiles felt his bottom lip tremble, his chin scrunching in a way it did when he cried big ugly tears. 

This time he didn't go for the neck. 

The hand relaxed from his throat as he watched the life fade from his mom's eyes. His mom turned into the monster that lived here, his blade slipping out between its ribs as it fell backward. 

Stiles turned to the front of the nest. Despite how quick it had happened, Stiles felt disoriented by the sunlight. Erica, Cora, and Derek stared at him, horrified looks stuck on their faces.

"Ketamine didn't work. Sorry." He didn't feel the need to defend himself that there were other bodies in there. He couldn't begin to find the energy for that.

"Stiles, come here," Cora said, eerily steady. 

"I didn't intend to kill it," Stiles protested weakly, "you know I didn't."

" _ Stiles _ ." Derek looked desperate.

"What?"

Derek's eyes dipped to Stiles's waist. Stiles looked down. 

"Oh," Stiles said. "Well, that's not good." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Yes, I'm back! I am so so so so so sorry for the unintended hiatus. Between the pandemic and my personal life, I didn't have the emotional energy to invest in fanfiction. But I am determined to finish this story. Didn't realize how much I missed Sterek until I started writing again. I think I needed the break to come back fresh. 
> 
> But I also want to let you know that I'm in grad school right now for creative writing and am working on my first novel. So, while I am going to write this fic, I may not be coming back anytime soon for more after it. Despite ideas still lingering in my mind that I never got around to, I have to dedicate more time to writing my original stories and less on Stiles and Derek.
> 
> But, also... I doubt I'll be gone forever. This is too much of who I am at this point. Love you all. Thank you for all the comments since my sudden disappearance. It's meant the world to me.


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles woke up by moments. A rough hand pushing down. Blossoming pain. The soft scent of wildflowers. Voices hushed and sharp. The shadowed light of late afternoon. A subtle breeze against bare skin. The shapes of an unfamiliar bedroom. Stiles stared at the ceiling. It was popcorned. This was funny, for some reason. There was a bedsheet scrunched around his legs. He had probably been tucked in the last time someone was in the room. The open window let in a comforting breeze and the last few rays of light for the day. 

He wondered how long he’d been out. Stiles tried to sit up only to be faced with pain worse than he’d experienced in a long time. He could control the whine between his teeth. It wasn’t long before someone opened the door, flooding the room with a patch of hallway light. 

Hands were on him, helping him back. Stiles hadn’t even realized he had screwed his eyes shut. His breaths were sharp and short as he tried to settle the pain of moving. It faded quick. Quicker than it should have. When Stiles opened his eyes, he knew he shouldn’t have been surprised, but he still was. 

Black veins trailed up Derek Hale’s arm, leeching pain. His face was blank of emotion, yet Stiles felt he knew that look all too well. 

“No hospital?” Stiles croaked, voice rough from sleep and pain. 

Derek kept his sight on where his hand laid over Stiles’s chest. “Marin stitched you up. It was,” he cringed “infected.”

“That sounds like a load of bull,” Stiles snorted, immediately regretting the way it spasmed his stomach. 

“It was eating away at your stomach. You would have died had we taken the time to bring you to a hospital, let alone left them to figure out what was wrong.” 

Stiles nodded. “What did she do to stop it?” It would be good to catalog what he could from this. Add to what little information was out there about sluaghs. Stiles followed Derek’s eyes to the bandages that were wrapped around his stomach. They were in need of a change, stained red and black a sickly yellow. 

“Should I,” Derek started, taking his hand away from Stiles’s chest. “Should I get your dad? Let him know what happened?”

Stiles sucked air between his teeth, already missing the warmth of Derek’s palm. Not just for the pain drain. “How long have I been out?”

“Day and a half,” Derek said. 

Stiles nodded. “I should eat something if I can manage it.”

“Stiles-”

“Tomorrow,” Stiles said. “Get him tomorrow. For now, I just. I don’t know.” 

Derek nodded and stood. “Erica and Boyd are fixing you something to eat,” he said. “Do you want the blanket?” He pointed to the crumpled mess on Stiles’s legs. 

Stiles shook his head. “A little overheated,” he said.

“I’ll tell Marin.” 

As the door closed behind Derek and the room became covered in shadows again, Stiles wondered whose bed he was in. 

* * *

The first time Stiles was in the hospital, he had a punctured lung. It had filled with blood. He was drowning on himself. It wasn’t even a hunt. It was practice. One of Allison’s second cousins or something shot him with a crossbow arrow. 

No one had come to visit him. This was before every kid had a cellphone and a laptop, so he couldn’t even contact Allison, who was in France on a pilgrimage every sixteen-year-old Argent member. Two weeks. Alone. The nurse staff was great, but it didn’t make up for the fact he was without family or friends. 

When he was finally allowed home, he was supposed to give it a month before doing any physical activity. Gerard put him back into training the next day. By the time Allison came home, Stiles needed an inhaler to trick his lungs into breathing right. He didn’t tell her until years later when they could healthily talk about the abuse they experienced. 

It was different abuse, but they still experienced it together.

* * *

Calling Allison sucked. She wanted to drop everything to be there for him. “It’s a single omega, we’re working with a pack and the others know what they’re doing,” she said. 

“It’s still so new to be working with packs, Ally. They need to know that you’ll be there for them. You can’t leave half through.”

She groaned, her breath crackling through the speaker. “I could probably counter that, but I can already hear the rest of your argument. I hate that you’re right.”

“No, you don’t,” he chided. “This is a great development for you.”

“Not for you,” she whispered. 

Stiles rolled his head towards the doorway when he heard footsteps. Marin was back to take his temperature and check on his stitches. “I’ve got to go,” Stiles said. “But I’m in good hands.”

“When do you think you’ll be mobile again?” 

“A week?” he guessed, poking around his abdomen. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Marin said, face coldly blank. She took the phone from his weak fingers despite Stiles’s protest. “This is Marin Morell. Who am I speaking to?” Marin opened her mouth and held out a thermometer. When Stiles mimicked her, she stuck it under his tongue and closed her mouth. “Right, I heard about you,” she said. “Stiles should have gone to the hospital, but because of the supernatural aspect, there were things they wouldn’t be able to treat. I was able to call my brother in to patch him up, but if he were in the hospital, they wouldn’t even let him leave for a month.” 

“A month!” Stiles yelled around the thermometer, immediately wincing the pressure it put on his stomach. “Fuck. _Fuck_.”

“Get your mouth shut,” Marin glared. “The toxins alone will take another few days to flush out. You shouldn’t be moving much even with assistance until” — Stiles cut her off. 

“I’ll be fine. I’m sure I’ve had worse,” he insisted.

Allison’s voice yelled through the speakers. “THAT’S NOT LOW ENOUGH BAR TO MAKE ME TRUST YOU!”

“Hold on a moment,” Marin told Allison. She crossed her arms over her chest, resting neatly on her baby bump. “Mouth. Closed.” 

Stiles shut his lips and secured the thermometer back under his tongue. They stared at each other in silence until the little device beeped. Marin traded it for Stiles’s phone. 

“Allison, I’m fine,” he grit out. He was far from fine, but he knew how to live like this. “Okay? And even if I weren’t, it doesn’t really matter. I’m not going to waste any of this year on bed rest.”

“Stiles,” Allison sighed as if trying not to breathe. She knew how futile it was arguing with him, but that didn’t mean she’d let it go.

“I’m supposed to be in Mexico by August, and I promised to check out the archives at Stanford for any new resources.”

“Resources on what?” Marin asked. She took a moment to sit on the edge of the bed, hand over her protruding belly. 

“Berserkers,” Stiles said. 

She placed a gentle hand on his knee. “I’m not going to let you move before your body is ready. Your body temperature is still too low, and that abdomen wound has a high risk of infection right now. But I will see what I can do about helping your research.” 

He was begrudgingly thankful. Once he could move easier, he’d leave regardless, but help with his work was more than he had expected. He could appreciate that. 

“Fine,” he huffed, then said it again more directly to Allison. “I’ll stay put for now, okay?”

“You better,” she warned. “I have to go. But keep me updated, Stiles. I’m serious.”

“I know. Be careful.”

“I will. Don’t die on me.”

Stiles smiled ruefully. “No promises.”

Allison was silent for a moment before ending the call. They both knew what was coming. 

* * *

It was habit to hide his injuries. To mask how bad they were. To push through the pain. The weak died where the strong survived. Stiles could look back with rueful spite at Gerard’s training. The man’s attempts to break and discard Stiles had made him the best hunter on the team. Team being a loose term. 

He often was sent ahead of the others. Dispensable. But he always made it out. Sometimes the others weren’t even needed. It had felt wrong, hands red, a wet sticky grip on his knife. They weren’t the human-like creatures. Gerard probably knew if something could talk to Stiles, Stiles would start questioning things. But the animals of the supernatural world didn’t deserve to be slaughtered. He often felt like those safari hunters, taking photos with the giraffe they killed. 

After Kate was exposed, Stiles wished his curse would come sooner. He should have done things different. He could have avoided killing so many creatures. He should have seen what it was they were making him do. He shouldn’t have bought into it all. 

“We were both fools,” Allison said, wine drunk under a full moon. “Eating what they fed us.”

Stiles took a pull from his handle of whiskey. “Cult mentality,” Stiles huffed. “You think the only reason we’re not like them is because of the internet?”

“What?”

Stiles shrugged. “They didn’t police all our values. We made some of them from our own information, critical thinking. Like, your mom and dad are insane, but are they really much better?”

Allison slapped him across the cheek. It stung. He took it silently. There was a thread to his question that Allison had followed. If her parents weren’t much better, then was she not much better either? 

“We can change,” Allison promised after a full minute. Tears welled from her eyes as if desperate to flee her body. “We have time. We can make things right.”

Stiles laughed. Soft at first. Hollow, throaty, bitter. Then it grew. He was laughing as if they were his last breaths being pulled straight out of him. He was already twenty-one. What good were nine years compared to all the generations behind them?

He couldn’t see through the tears in his eyes, and his breathing was sharp. Allison slapped him again. The silence between them was anything but settled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big news! Check out my website forestnovak.com or forestlaufey.com >original writing


	5. Chapter 5

When his dad showed up, Stiles was unprepared. He knew the man was coming, but he couldn’t picture what that meant. From his past visits, they had gotten to know each other better, but Stiles never had John as a father, not really. The memories from back then were too vague, only cut by the sharp remembrances of the lessons his mother gave him. Chris wasn’t a bad guardian, but he never treated Stiles like a son. 

There were already tears in John’s eyes when he entered the room. His hands hovered frantically over Stiles as if he could parse out the extent of the damage with a phantom touch. Finally John settled for taking one of Stiles’s hands in both of his, sitting in the chair Derek pulled over for him. 

His dad’s hands were soft with age, liver spotted and waxy. Years of calluses told a story of hard work and sure grip. Stiles squeezed gently. His father’s hand. 

“You didn’t need to come,” Stiles said, wishing he could give even the smallest smile to comfort the man. 

“Of course I was going to, son.” His voice was as watery as his eyes. “I never got to be there for you before, I’m going to be you for there now.” 

The door to the room squeaked closed. Derek had left. Stiles silently thanked him for the illusion of privacy. For all the times he had spent holding back cries of pain in front of Gerard, Stiles was starting to mirror his father. 

“I love you, kiddo. I’ll always come if I know you’re hurt.”

Stiles never knew this kind of hurt before. The melancholy that choked his throat was worse than his shredded abdomen. It was nostalgia for the life they could have had if his mother hadn’t taken him away. It was guilt for not finding John sooner. It was regret for making this man cry. It was fear that he was wasting the rest of his life. It was seeing himself, too young to know all the horrors of the world, and being unable to go back, unable to comfort him as he learned. It was the the kind of hurt that came from love and Stiles didn’t want to die. 

It was not like a damn breaking. It was like a geyser. He did not cry a flood of tears. Stiles wept as all the pain he’d ever lived through erupted out of him. “I’m sorry,” he wailed into the cotton of his dad’s shirt, crumpled between his fingers. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m”- he broke off with a gasp, not enough breath to mutter more. 

John held him carefully, rubbing soothing circles over Stiles’ back. He shushed Stiles with kind nothings and his muscles shook from the restraint it took to not crush his son to his chest. 

When Stiles finally calmed down, squeezed dry and hollow, John helped him lie back down. “Sounds like you needed that, huh kid?” 

Stiles only wiped at his eye in response. He wished John hadn’t seen that. Stiles didn’t want his dad any more worried over him. Selfishly, Stiles was glad he was there. John was right. He did need that. Nothing was better, not really. But he would feel lighter when he woke up. Purged. 

“I’ll let you sleep.” 

Before John could move, Stiles held his hand tighter. A silent request to stay. He was asleep only a blink after.

* * *

John stayed for dinner. Originally they were going to bring Stiles a plate, but he complained enough about being stuck in bed that Derek helped him to the table. It was awkward being that close to a face that handsome while being a pathetic injured idiot who can’t even walk for themself. If there was one feeling that Stiles hated above any other, it was helplessness. Helpless as his mom deteriorated in front of him. Helpless as Gerard used him for bait. Helpless to fight a curse that was slowly creeping closer. 

“You okay there, kiddo?” John asked. 

Stiles looked up and fought to pull his lips into a smile. “Yeah. Yeah, just. Tired.” 

It felt like eternity before his father left. Stiles had been happy to see him again, but that was also why it hurt so much when John was there. Despite John’s insistence that knowing Stiles was a gift, Stiles still felt guilty coming back into the man’s life only to leave so soon. 

That only served as a reminder of how little time Stiles had left. How much he still wanted to do. He knew he hurt his dad when he asked John not to visit too often. “I’m not good company,” Stiles insisted. “Especially right now. I’d rather not strain what we have.” 

John agreed, if reluctantly, but promised he’d be keeping tabs. Stiles was sure Derek would be feeding him information. Still, Stiles couldn’t stomach seeing his dad every day. It would drive him crazy. Poor choice of words. 

Stiles didn’t actually know if he’d go the same way as his mother. He hadn’t learned much from her about the curse before she died. Claudia Stilinski had always wanted Stiles prepared. Prepared to fight. To defend himself. To kill when necessary. Prepared with the knowledge of what’s out there. Prepared to learn this without her. She had prepared Stiles for her death. But she hadn’t prepared him for his own. 

Perhaps that had been too much for a mother. 

“You look troubled.” 

Stiles had been settled into an armchair in the living room after dinner and Peter paid him a visit. Bracing for confrontation and cursing his lack of protection, Stiles looked up at Peter with as much of a bitch face as possible. 

“My guts are barely staying in my body and I had a magical decay eating away at me.”

Peter chuckled, a dark amusement behind his eyes. Derek was in the kitchen with Cora, cleaning up after dinner. The rest of the pack had split ways once dinner was over but Isaac was on the couch starting up his playstation so at least there was that. Not that Stiles actually felt in danger with Peter, but he was unsettled by the man. Peter knew his mom. If not personally, then at least had done his research when she lived in the area. 

“I wanted to ask. Why are you looking up berserkers for the Calaveras?”

Stiles raised a very unimpressed eyebrow. He just wished it didn’t make him look like a confused sidekick in a sitcom when he did that. “Why do you think it’s for the Calaveras?”

“They have a history working with the Argents,” Peter supplied. “Aren’t berserkers Germanic?” 

“Norse,” Stiles corrected. “But that is a Germanic branch off.”

“What are they doing in Mexico?”

Stiles shrugged, but winced at the pull of his stomach. “Creatures immigrate the same as people. There didn’t used to be horses in the Americas. Or cats, I think.” 

“Fair enough.” Peter took a seat in a chair next to Stiles, clearly settling for conversation. “I always thought the Calaveras didn’t like to accept outside help.”

“And I thought you just said they have a history of working with the Argents,” Stiles counted.

Peter smiled. “Yes, but I believe that was more in terms of  _ we won’t bother you if you don’t bother us _ and letting the other know if something crossed territories.” He looked at Stiles like searching a hidden object game. As if he knew what he was looking for, he just wasn’t sure where it was yet. “I was curious as to why they requested your help. Research  _ and  _ in person aid? Peculiar, for them.”

On the other side of the living room, Isaac was focused on his game, but Stiles was sure he was listening in as well. The whole house probably was. No secrets among werewolves. 

“Like you said, berserkers aren’t native to Mexico. They don’t have experience with them.”

“And you do?”

Stiles sighed, biting back a twinge of pain. Peter wasn’t straying into any territory about his mother, and he owed this family a debt. For himself and on behalf of Allison. It wouldn’t do to horde secrets. “Yeah. Yeah, number of years back. They’re pretty rare. Most historical references show only one or two together at any given time, but, yes, the Calaveras spotted four distinct different ones nearby. Maybe five, but they haven’t confirmed that yet. I promised to look more into their origins, which there’s a good archive for at Stanford, and the only sure fire way I know of fighting them involves my spark so I can’t exactly just give them information and send them on their way.”

Peter nodded. “Is August cutting it close? For you.” He must know how Claudia went. Her sanity unraveling by the day until she didn’t even recognize Stiles. Until her body shut down because there was nothing left to tell it to go. 

Stiles shrugged again, braced for any pain before it came this time. “Maybe. Not entirely sure, to be honest.”

Peter looked at him strangely then, a frown of confusion hidden behind his pompous superiority. “I make it a priority of mine to keep tabs on hunters,” Peter confessed, although it sounded less of a confession and more of a pointed statement. “I’ve heard about you before you came here. Your spark let me know you were Claudia’s, and it’s no secret you’re an unparalleled researcher.” 

The complement felt off balance, the absent shape of a bard still biting at Stiles. “And?” Stiles prompted when Peter had stayed silent.

“Have you not researched your own family curse?”

Stiles looked away, wishing he was better at shutting his emotions from his face. He could mask them with anger or sarcasm, but he could never pull them fully into careful blankness. 

“You haven’t, have you?” Peter pressed. “It’s a  _ curse _ . And you never looked for a way to break it? To understand all it’s loopholes and pitfalls? You have a spark, so you understand the twisting way that magic works, and you just let yourself grow old without trying to-”

“I’m going to die, Peter,” Stiles cut him off, bitter fury underlying his words. If it weren’t for his injury, Stiles would probably be causing some minor electrical surge. “And the curse will die with me. I made that choice long ago. There’s no point in knowing more.”

“Not even if it means you could survive?” 

Stiles sucked in his breath. Derek was behind him, and his question had been full of something Stiles couldn’t quite pinpoint. Remorse? Pity? Stiles turned his head enough to catch Derek from the corner of his eye. 

When Claudia Stilinski first got sick, Stiles had hope that she would recover. His mother had never dissuaded that hope, despite the arrangements she made for after she was gone. Allison was sure Claudia would get better. They thought it was a stroke, something that messed with her cognition. Something that speech therapy and mind exercises could help Claudia recover. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t still fight or control her spark. Stiles and Allison weren’t told about the frontotemporal dementia. The irreversible and spreading nature of the brain damage. 

The hope had let Stiles be blindsided. The hope had kept Stiles in denial. The hope had torn his heart to shreds, strip by strip so small he hadn’t even noticed. 

“If I invest time into researching for myself, I take time away from helping others,” Stiles told Derek. “And if I research this curse, every day I don’t find answers will be another death sentence, but the possibility will haunt me with false hope.” It was as raw as he wanted to be in front of the pack. It was an honesty he had only shared with Allison. “Now don’t make things weird and someone bring me back to bed. I’m done talking about this.”

Stiles had expected Derek to take the job again, but it was Cora who came around to the front of the chair. She gave Peter a stern look before carefully getting Stiles in her arms. As the headed to the stairs, Cora shifted her eyes to Derek, a softer frown on her face. 

When Stiles followed her gaze, he regretted it instantly. Derek looked at him like… Stiles wasn’t entirely sure. It was heavy, and it was deep, and it was full of a promise that Stiles didn’t have time to decode. Not now, in the fleeting moments before being carried up to bed. And certainly not in the last year before Stiles was taken by the curse. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! If you're interested in reading some of my original work, [check out my website forestnovak.com](https://www.forestnovak.com) for details!


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